


Music of the Waters (B2MEM 2018)

by KayleeArafinwiel



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aunt-Nephew Relationship, Brothers, Cousins, F/M, Grandmother-Grandson Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 05:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14037099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayleeArafinwiel/pseuds/KayleeArafinwiel
Summary: Random wanderings throughout the Ages of Arda for the B2MEM 2018 "Music of the Waters" prompts - characters and often quotes generated by the Silmarillion Writers' Guild random generator.





	1. Idril in Mandos

“You called for me, my Lord?” The Lady Idril, once Princess of Gondolin, eyed her keeper’s younger brother with frank curiosity. “Or perhaps for us?” She glanced back over her shoulder. Tuor stood by the western wall, looking out over the Ekkaia and doing his best not to tremble.

 

Námo, Lord of Mandos, smiled serenely back at the Elven woman, causing her to shiver. “Indeed, daughter, I did. I would ask you to walk in my Halls with me – in the Halls of the Firiath, for there is one of your grandsons who refuses to take his leave.”   
  
“One of my—surely not Elros,” Idril replied.

 

The Vala shook his head. “Nay, Elros has long departed to meet the Source of his existence. This one is a long-son of his, and a more stubborn Child I have not seen in quite some time. He demands to see you.”  
  
“He sounds like an elfling denied his favourite sweet,” Idril replied dryly, as Tuor stared stubbornly at the rain-washed sea. Námo laughed, but there was no humour in it, and the thunderclouds rolled. Lightning forked into the waters, making them boil, and Tuor hastily backed away.

 

“Elflings are one thing. Blasphemers are quite another,” Námo replied. Idril paled.

 

“ _Blasphemers!_ What do you say of this grandson of mine?” she demanded, a tremor in her voice. “Do you accuse my Eärendil’s sons of being less than faithful, my lord? He has ever served the Lords of the West, as have we—”  
  
“Ah, but therein lies the trouble, Daughter,” Námo said gravely, “for this grandson of yours names _himself_ Lord of the West.”  
  
Idril gasped, bile rising in her throat. Her breathing quickened, and the world seemed to reel around her. Tuor gave a shout of denial, rushing to catch her as she fell, but when she collapsed in his arms, limp, he knew she was not there. Her fëa had fled.

 

 

***

 

Idril found herself in a small chamber, perhaps twenty paces square. The stone walls were a soft grey and the floor was tiled in a pleasing pattern of diamonds, white and blue. The only ornamentation was a resting couch upon which the fëa of a Man lay sullenly, his arms folded across his chest. His companion, a Maia, gazed at him dispassionately; Idril knew the Maiar loved the Children, both Firstborn and Secondborn, but she had a feeling even Maiar could be at the end of their patience. Erring on the side of caution, she offered the Maia a curtsey. “Good morning, my lord.”  
  
“Good morning, Child,” came the calm reply. The Man sat bolt upright, glowering, and Idril was forced to take a step back. She knew those dark eyes, flashing angrily at her. _Maeglin!_

_Nay, child!_ The Maia’s hand on her back calmed her. _This is not Maeglin the traitor, but the grandson you have been called to see._

_He looks like…_

_I know. Be still, Child, he will not cause you harm._

“So, you are Lady Idril,” the Man drawled. “I have to say, I thought you would be…different. Braver, perhaps.”  
  
“What do you mean by that, little boy?” Idril challenged. _He is your grandson, Idril, remind him of his place._

“I saw how frightened you were at the sight of me,” he sneered. “Bow before me, woman, for I am the Lord of the West. I, not these benighted fools!”  
  
Idril stared in disbelief and laughed. “I will never bow before you, shame of my flesh, disgrace of my blood. My Eärendil would be ashamed to call you his own.”

 

“Bah! What care I for the so-called _Star of Hope,_ the Elves’ fancy, who abandoned his sons even as you did? It seems to be a _family tradition,”_ her grandson drawled.

 

“You sound like a petulant elfling,” Idril replied, shaking her head in disbelief. “I thought you were meant to be a Man full-grown and wise. What is this nonsense, Child of mine?”  
  
“I am no child.”  
  
“No? You look like one,” Idril retorted, for the Maia had been obliging Adunakhôr’s petulance by causing his age to fade away. He was, Idril thought, perhaps now a boy of about seven summers – the same age Eärendil had been when Gondolin… _no._ Anyway, he looked nothing like her son, more like she imagined her cousin had looked at that age. She tried to shake that thought off, not wanting to recall her uncle’s enraged advance, her aunt’s bloody death, but the more she tried not to think of it, the more she thought.

 

“Is there a problem, _Grandmother?”_ Adunakhôr sneered. He was speaking Adûnaic, she realised – a language Idril did not speak, but she found herself able to understand. The power of Mandos was impressive.

 

“Not for me. Now tell me, grandson, by what name did your mother call you?”  
  
“Adunakhôr.”  
  
“Surely not.” Idril raised an eyebrow.

 

Little Adunakhôr scowled. “Avalôbên,” he amended.

 

 _Valandur,_ Idril translated mentally. “Servant of the Valar,” she said aloud. “Do you not think, little one, that taking a name which blasphemes them is…”  
  
“Why should they care? The Avalôi care not! The Nimir care not!” he said sullenly.

 

“This Elf cares very much,” Idril replied dryly. “And Lord Námo cares as well, as do his brethren. You will not go to face the Source of your existence without facing the consequences for such blasphemy, grandson mine.”  
  
“What do _you_ plan to do about it?” Adunakhôr demanded.

 

“What did your parents do when you misbehaved, child?” Idril replied.

 

“Nothing.”  
  
“You had a nursemaid, I take it?”   
  
A reluctant nod. “She made me stand in the corner, or took away my sweets, and if I was very bad, she whipped Zadnazîr with the birch.”  
  
“And who was this Zadnazîr?”   
  
“My friend,” Adunakhôr admitted after a long pause.   
  
“Well then. Zadnazîr is not here, and I think it is time and past time you began paying for your own mistakes, inyonya,” Idril replied. “Eärendil never passed his punishments on to anyone else. So come, Valandur. Let us see this done.”   


Valandur - she refused to call him Adunakhôr - obeyed reluctantly, and Idril handled the small boy's punishment as quickly and thoroughly as his nurse had managed Zadnazîr's long ago. She allowed for the fact Valandur was not used to it, but had still brought him to penitent tears.

 

“S-sorry, Anammë, sorry,” he whimpered once he was able to speak again.

 

“Shh. Catch your breath, inyonya, I have you safe. Breathe in and out, slowly now, deeply, that’s right.” Idril spoke soothingly to little Valandur, feeling he truly was Valandur again and Adunakhôr no longer. When his tears and sniffles had reduced to a manageable level, she rocked the boy gently in her arms. “Anammë is here, Valandur. There now, you will be well. Sore, undoubtedly, but well.”   
  
“S-sorry I was so bad,” Valandur whispered. “Do they hate me?”  
  
“The Valar?” Idril asked. “No, never, child. They love you; that is why they sent me here, to help you learn the error of your ways.”  
  
“My people,” Valandur said quietly.  
  
“Ah…I could not say. But I hope not, inyonya,” she replied. “No Child of Ilúvatar should hate another.” She kissed his dark hair tenderly. “Are you ready to go now?”

 

“Will it hurt?” Valandur whispered.  
  
Idril shook her head. “I doubt it, little one. I doubt it very much. Lord Namo wouldn’t send you to a place where you would be hurt.”   
  
“I hurt now,” Valandur contradicted, and Idril gave him a hug. “It won’t last, best beloved. You are going to a place where you can be happy. No fear now, inyonya. Anammë loves you.” The depth of feeling behind the words was astounding, Idril thought, but it was true for all that. She had come to love this grandson of hers in such a short time.

 

Valandur nodded slowly. “I…I can go.”   
  
Idril nodded, carrying the boy in her arms. The Maia led her to a dark river, where a swan-shaped boat floated, tied in place and waiting. Standing next to the boat was another woman, one Idril didn’t recognise. But Valandur obviously did.  
  
“Anammë!”   
  
The white-haired woman smiled and reached out to take him from Idril. She was loath to give Valandur up, but at last she did.   
  
“Greetings, Lady. I am Queen Nilûphêl – Isilwen if you like,” the woman said. “Thank you for taking care of my grandson.”   
  
“Our grandson,” Idril replied with a faint smile. “It was my pleasure – eventually. I take it you will see Valandur on his journey?”  
  
“We shall go together,” Queen Isilwen replied. “Fare you well, Lady Idril.”  
  
“Fare you well, my grandchildren, wherever this road may lead you, and may you be happy,” Idril replied. She watched as the two Mortals boarded the boat, then watched it out of sight. Only then did she begin to weep.

 

***

“Oh, thank the Belain,” Tuor whispered, as Idril stirred in his arms, eyes wet with tears. He hugged her close. “What _happened?”_

Idril flung her arms around Tuor and hugged him. “Our grandson happened.”  
  
He half-led, half-carried Idril away from the walls of the World toward their home in Nienna’s demesne. “I have a feeling this story will take a while…” Tuor muttered. “Wine is called for.”  
  
“It most certainly is,” Idril murmured, thinking where on Arda – or off it, perhaps – she might begin.


	2. Under the Rain-Washed Leaves of Brethil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hunting party goes astray – and the fates of Man and Elf begin to entwine.

“Where are you going in such a hurry, cousin?” Galathil called after Celepharn, shouting after him as the youngest grandson of Lord Elmo cantered past. He nudged his own horse to catch up, and they rode companionably in the pouring rain, heedless of the weather.   
  
“Celeborn, the ellith, and my sons have left us behind again. You were too busy cloud-gazing to notice. What is the use, Galathil? The sky is filled with sheets of rain coming down on us. Do you not care?”  
  
Galathil smirked. “No.”  
  
“Well, the ladies can’t go hawking in this rain, and our bows are useless. We had better find shelter, or hope they have.” Celepharn looked around. Most traces of his beloved’s passage with his elflings, Celeborn and Galadriel had been washed away, but there were still some. He plowed on through the rain-soaked woods, following the swelling river to the north.

 

The dwellings of the Haladin were on the northwestern border, he knew, but it would be some time before they reached it. They would surely come across an outpost of either the Elven or Mannish garrisons before then – and so they did, an earthen cave dug into a rise ahead. There was a fire lit, and the Elves slowed, approaching warily. It could be foes who had taken the cave.

 

"Who goes there?" _Oh, thank Eru. Celeborn._

 

"It's me and Celepharn, Brother." Galathil jumped lightly down from his horse and knew Celepharn was right behind him as they led their mounts inside. "You ran away from us."

 

"Well, we encountered a bit of trouble." Only then did Galathil notice the two golden-haired boys - for Mortal boys they must be - engaged in a game of Stones with Celepharn's sons as they warmed by the fire.

 

Celepharn was loath to interrupt his sons to ask questions. Instead he went to Neldiel and kissed her. "Beloved, I thought we'd lost you."

 

Neldiel's eyes sparkled in the glow from the firelight. "You just couldn't keep up."

 

"Yes, well, Galathil was lagging." Celepharn rolled his eyes where his cousins couldn't see. "Honestly, he's always watching the skies even when there's nothing to see but rain." He paused, looking around thoughtfully. "So it seems you found company, hmm?"

 

"They were just here," Neldiel said, by way of explanation. Celepharn had heard her say similar things before - usually about animals she'd claimed to have 'just' found.

 

Celepharn raised an eyebrow, looking skeptical. "They were 'just here', beloved?" he repeated, hoping Neldiel didn't intend to adopt the boys. They were children of the Secondborn, not fluffy animals.

 

"Well, they were." Neldiel gestured vaguely. "We came into the cave for shelter and they were just here."

 

Celepharn glanced at their sons and the human children. The taller boy straightened. "My name is Húrin, son of Galdor, my lords. This is my brother, Huor. We didn't mean to intrude on your cave, but we needed shelter. The storm was rather sudden."

 

"It was," Celepharn agreed. "We would not wish you to catch a chill. Son of Galdor, do you say? Not Lord Galdor of Dor-lómin?"

 

"The same," Húrin agreed. "But we dwell with our mother's kinfolk, the Haladin of Brethil."

 

"Ah, then you are nearer home than I thought," Celepharn allowed.

 

Húrin shook his head. "Our uncle Haldir says we may return to Dor-lómin soon. I am sixteen, after all, very nearly a man."

 

Huor looked at the floor. "I am thirteen," he admitted. "I know Dor-lómin is our birthplace, but I do not think of it as home, really. I would rather remain in Elven lands."

 

Neldiel perched on a rock near to her sons and the mortal boys and pulled her knees up close for warmth. "But what are you doing out here?" she asked, wrapping her arms around her knees.

 

Huor looked up. "Uncle Haldir and the men went out to fight yrch," he said readily, while Húrin motioned for him to keep quiet. "We wanted to go too, but they wouldn't let us, so we followed them anyway. Then the storm came, and we couldn't track them anymore. Húrin's really good at tracking, you know, but the rain washed away everything. We'd have to be Elves to see any more tracks. Then he remembered Uncle Haldir telling us about a cave, so we tried to find it. And it's here, so we're here."

 

Neither Celeborn nor Celepharn looked impressed. Galathil was hiding a smile, Oropher looked scandalised, and Vehiron was openly grinning. Lady Galadriel was just watching serenely. "Oh," Neldiel said mildly. "Well, that makes sense."

 

Huor nodded. "Of course it does," he agreed, while his older brother just looked relieved. "So when we got here we found firewood already here and it was dry, so Húrin made a fire to warm us up. It wasn't stealing, was it?" he worried aloud. "I hope we won't be in trouble."

 

Celepharn sighed. "I doubt our patrols begrudge you a few sticks, child. As you say, you needed warmth, and no one else was present to build the fire for you. No, you are not in trouble for that."

 

"Have you eaten?" Galathil asked.

 

Húrin grimaced. "We lost our food supplies somewhere in the woods," he admitted. "There were a few dried apples and strips of meat in that storage barrel at the back of the cave, but it wasn't much. I hope we shan't be in trouble for that either, my lord."

 

"Of course you won't, sweetness," Neldiel reassured him, as Galathil took a breath.

 

"I would have said that anyway," Galathil complained.

 

Húrin blushed at Neldiel's form of address, and Huor nodded. "Thank you, my lady, my lord. I just hope the storm ends soon, so we can find our uncle and help him. What if he needs us?"

 

"He didn't seem to want us when he went off without us," Húrin muttered.

 

Celepharn shook his head. "He didn't want you in danger, child. You are his nephews and he wants to keep you safe. Both of you."

 

"I am not a child," Húrin retorted, then backtracked hastily. "My lord," he added much more respectfully.

 

Oropher laughed. "Try telling that to someone who hasn't been alive for nearly seven yéni."

 

Húrin's jaw dropped. "Seven...seven..." He stammered.

"Yéni," Huor supplied helpfully. "Ennin. Long-years. Centuries." He continued rattling off terms until Húrin's patience ran out and the older boy cuffed him on the back of the head.

 

"Stop that. I know what yéni are," he muttered.

 

"And Ada isn't even the eldest one here," Vehiron added cheerfully.

 

The two boys looked at the Elves, wide-eyed. "Really?" they breathed.

 

Celeborn chuckled quietly. "Really," he agreed.

 

"That one is positively ancient," Neldiel said mischievously, nodding at Galadriel who just rolled her eyes.

 

"How ancient?" Huor dared to ask, but his question went unanswered. The Elves realised the storm had blown over, and the howling now was not that of the wind.

 

"Yrch!" Galathil hissed, as the sounds of pitched battle were joined. "Neldiel, Galadriel, take the elflings and get out of here."

 

"I am not an elfling-minder, brother," Galadriel said calmly.

 

"And we don't need to be taken anywhere," Vehiron protested. "We can fight."

 

"So can we," Húrin added, snatching up his long knife. "I hear Uncle Haldir out there! He needs us."

 

Celeborn frowned. "Enough," he said firmly. "Galadriel, Neldiel, go home with Oropher and Vehiron now. We will follow as soon as we may. These children must be returned to their uncle as soon as the danger is past."

 

"You can't just send us home like little boys, we're trained warriors," Vehiron argued incredulously. Oropher was looking just as pained as his younger brother sounded, but ever the dutiful heir, he was holding his tongue.

 

Neldiel exhaled and stepped closer to Celeborn, tuning out the sound of Celepharn pulling Vehiron aside and speaking sharply to him. Her hand resting on the knife at her waist made it plain that she wanted to fight, but she was doing her best to set an example for the children. "The mortal boys should come with us. They can be returned to their uncle later."

 

"And have Lord Haldir accuse us of kidnapping?" Celeborn returned. "We need someone to return to Thingol and tell him how far the yrch have come into Brethil. I trust you and my beloved to bear that message, Neldiel."

 

"But the boys," Neldiel began.

 

"Neldiel, come," Galadriel commanded the younger elleth.

 

Neldiel exhaled, but she turned away from Celeborn and went instead to Celepharn as he finished speaking to Vehiron. "Lord Haldir accusing us of kidnap is far preferable to harm befalling those boys," she said, as her beloved drew his sword and tilted her chin up with the tips of his gloved fingers for a goodbye kiss.

 

Celepharn kissed Neldiel. "No harm will befall them. Celeborn, Galathil and I will be sure of it," Celepharn said quietly. "May the Belain be with you, love. We will come to you soon."

 

"I will hold you to that," Neldiel whispered.

 

She went to Húrin and Huor then, and gave them both a kiss of benediction. "Listen to the ellyn. Be safe."

 

"Yes, my lady," Huor said. His brother only nodded mutely. When the ellith had gone, taking Oropher and Vehiron with them, the three older ellyn headed out with the boys.

 

Celepharn and Galathil rode one on each side of the human boys, Celeborn riding in front. Up ahead, the Haladin were fighting fiercely. The number of yrch was greatly reduced, though a few Men lay dead or injured, and the Elves joined the fray. Lord Haldir was fighting nearby, and hardly noticed as his nephews threw themselves into the battle as well.

 

Galathil fought as fiercely as his brother and their cousin, and though he tried to keep an eye on the young mortal boys it was difficult to pay attention to both them and the battle raging around them.

 

By the time the ellyn and the Haladin had slain the yrch, Celeborn was finding it hard to draw breath. They had pursued the creatures past the eaves of Brethil, and northwards, almost to the ford of Brithiach. Now, as the Haladin regrouped, he joined his brother and cousin, looking around for their charges. A silver-white mist enveloped the land ahead of them, the plain of Dimbar; even he couldn't see the Echoriath that lay some distance ahead. They would have to turn back.

 

"Where are they?" Galathil gasped. "Where did the children go?"

 

Celeborn looked around, wide-eyed. "I...don't know, muindor-laes. I don't see them...anywhere." He swallowed hard.

 

Celepharn, meanwhile, was searching the dead and wounded. "They are not here," he said, only half grateful. At least they could assume the boys were alive. But alive where?

 

"But they cannot have just vanished," Galathil insisted.

 

Celeborn, continuing to search, shook his head. "Perhaps they have," he replied quietly, pointing ahead into the mists. "If they had gone any other way, I would find their tracks. But they have not."

 

"Then what should we do?" Galathil asked quietly.

 

"We should help the Haladin get home," Celeborn replied quietly. "That mist isn't a natural weather phenomenon. It must be the work of the Belain, and if they don't want the boys found, we're not going to find them."

 

Galathil nodded quietly, exhaling. "Very well, muindor."

 

"I will report to the Queen when we return home," Celeborn added. "She will be able to tell us what to do, if there is anything we can do."

 

Celepharn, listening, nodded. "Very well," he echoed Galathil. He looked over at the Haladin. Some were tending the injured. Others were collecting valuables from their dead and arranging the bodies on biers; they began burning the bodies. They would commit the ashes to the winds, rather than allow the bodies of their kin to be buried here, so near to the Valley of Dreadful Death and the Mountains of Terror, from whence the yrch descended.

 

Lord Haldir approached Galathil. He had his arm bound in a sling, but otherwise seemed physically well, though frantic as he looked around. "My nephews," he whispered. "They were here, weren't they, my lords?"

"Yes, Lord Haldir," Galathil said quietly. "I am sorry."

 

"But they lie not among the dead, nor the wounded, and they are not among those who remain hale. Where have they gone?" Haldir pleaded. "I see no tracks."

 

To that, Galathil could only shake his head. Celeborn turned to Lord Haldir.   
  
“I believe they have gone into the mist,” he said quietly. “I will consult the Queen about it, but I do not believe they will be harmed, whatever befall. The mist does not seem an evil omen, though I can see naught within.”  
  
“if even an Elf-prince can see naught, the eyes of my men have no chance,” Haldir replied. “I pray the Queen will do all she can for them.” _Be safe,_ he thought, hoping somewhere his nephews could hear him. This land was besieged by terror…and yet the worst fear was to ride home unaccompanied by the heirs of Galdor and Hareth, his beloved sister. Whatever would Hareth say to him when she found out? He hated to think. Still, they could not stay.  
  
As the reek of ash and burning flesh spread over the plain, and the last of the funeral pyres was extinguished, Haldir turned to his remaining men. “We must go home.”

 

The three Princes of Doriath rode alongside the Men, allowing them their grief, and guarding them that they, at least, would pass safely, unmolested. As they rode, Celeborn lifted a continuous prayer to the Belain, wishing with every beat of his heart. _May those children of Men return home safely!  
  
Fear not, Nephew, _ he heard as he entered the Girdle of Melian. _Fear not for the sons of Galdor! Their destiny lies elsewhere, and their doom is not on your shoulders. For now, they remain well. But remember them, for their fates are entwined with those of the Elves, now and forever._

What that could mean, Celeborn had no idea – but he trusted Melian knew what she was about. Someday, he supposed, he would know.


	3. Fell Fire Reignited (Double dribble, inverted)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegnor recounts his former life’s last moments to his concerned aunt.

Findis was looking at me, disturbed. Was I dead?  
I had been dead. I remember the rushing flame –   
Stronger than any of Ulmo’s waves came terror.  
I remember my fear. I, Fell Fire!  
I fell to the fire. Nerwen!  
My twin, my dearest one –   
But no longer, for  
Here I lie.  
Aicanáro Arafinwion –   
Reborn.

A   
New life  
Awaits me here.  
“Where are my scars?”  
Findis stirs. “What scars, Nephew?”  
“I was burned. The fire – Gundor –“  
“Who is this Gundor, Aicanáro? You live.”  
“Gundor was my friend.” I weep hot tears.  
“Tell me of him, Nephew. Tell me of your friend.”  
“Gundor was an Atan. He…buried me.” Findis embraces me.


	4. Gifts of Darkness by the Waters of Awakening (triple drabble)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sauron and Tatië meet. All does not go well for the first Lady of the Second Clan. Set during the time Oromë has taken the ambassadors for the Elves to Aman.

“Thou’rt jealous, is it not so, Child?”  
  
“I am, Lord.” The chief woman of the Tatyai bows to the Maia who stands beside her, seemingly concerned. She is wary, however.   
  
“Because thine heir has been chosen to represent the Tatyai in thy lord’s place, is it not so?”  
  
“It is, Lord.” Is it her imagination, or does this Servant of the unseen Vali seem more…prideful than others? It is a weakness of her lord, and of their heir. But his next words warm him to Tatië.

 

“Then come with me, Tatië, and be my messenger to the greatest of the Bali, Mbelkoro, Lord of Gifts. Come, and let thy lord see to himself.” He smiles charmingly – _seductively,_ she wonders? Still, she is curious.

 

Tatië places her hand in his and follows. Various of the Tatyai call after her, the children of the Nelyai hand her shells. One of her son’s playmates, a Minya called Ndissë, hands her a crown of woven grasses.  
  
She is still wearing it when the Servant takes her before his Lord of Gifts – the Dark Hunter.

 

Tatië never sees the stars again, but the kiss of fire and screams of pain become familiar. Her crown withers to dust.

 

Blackened, twisted flesh – the offspring she bears for the Dark Hunter’s armies are nothing like her Finwë. _O my beloved, my son, please, do not forget me! Please forgive my foolish pride and envy!_

 

Death, when it comes, is a gift. She prays the Bali, too, can forgive.  



	5. East from Tol Eressea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nerdanel climbs the Tower to gaze East upon her family. She gets a little distracted…

_F.A. 329_

 

Nerdanel climbed the Tower of Avallónë, ascending the spiral staircase slowly, and musing on her duty. The stars were slowly winking out overhead, and the grey light of dawn spreading – shading into pinks and oranges that lit the Alatairë.

 

The Great Sea, sundering her for ever from the Hither Shore – where her sons yet lived, fought and died.  

_Died?_

It was such an unusual word to her – and yet. _And yet._ She remembered hearing of the blood-stained sands of Alqualondë, the dark pall that still hung over Formenos, where her father-in-law lay buried.

She clutched a string of black opals in her hand. Eight gems, hanging pendant from a gold chain. Each had shone with an inner Light since her husband had forged it for her long ago, a thanks-gift for giving him their twin sons. But now one of those opals was dark.  
  
The other seven still shone, she reminded herself, though one’s Light was dimmed. But she remembered the words of the Lord of Mandos, relayed to those who had remained behind:  
  
_On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be for ever._

She could not, would not, plead for mercy for her husband and sons. The Valar had decreed, and the Valar were right. It was enough, Nerdanel thought, that they had appointed her the Keeper of the Tower and allowed her access to her husband’s Master-stone. Reaching the top of the tower, she entered the small room, with its single east-facing window open to the air, and approached the Stone.  
  
Reverently, she lifted away its silk covering, and seated herself on the wooden stool. _Which of my sons shall I seek today?_

Instead of answering herself, she let her mind drift as it would, and soon it settled on a dark-haired _ner_ like and unlike her husband. _Ñolofinwë!_

_But who is that with him?_ The golden-haired companion was no Elf. She frowned, studying him and his barbaric attire. _One of the Apanónar,_ she finally decided. _The Secondborn, the Supplanters – but no, was that one of the Dark One’s lies? The Atan, then…_

It seemed Ñolofinwë was treating the Atan well, anyway. He sat companionably beside the Atan, speaking in a language Nerdanel had to strain to understand. It was like to Quenya, yet unlike. It would take much more study to understand, but Nerdanel had time.

_Oh yes, if nothing else, I have time!_

She watched Ñolofinwë and the Atan – _Aradan,_ Ñolofinwë called him – run outside. The Master-stone followed them to a garden, where her brother-in-love and the Atan chased each other through spring flowers and past a babbling brook. She almost smiled. The Curse, it seemed, had not affected him as much as her own family. He could still play.

Nerdanel wasn’t sure how long she sat there and watched as the two played like carefree elflings – but when this _Aradan_ tumbled Ñolofinwë into a fishpond, she laughed hoarsely, tears of mirth burning her eyes. When was the last time so much as a smile had passed her lips?   
  
_This Atan is good for Ñolofinwë,_ she decided. _I will keep an eye on them._ It promised better times ahead than watching her husband and sons move slowly to their doom.

She rose to gaze out the window. Anar shone brightly, bestowing her warmth upon all. Yes, today would be a good day. __  
  



	6. Wild Ones (songfic)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the patriarchal society of Doriath, women are meant to be submissive to their fathers and husbands, obedient and content to be defended by their ellyn. Some ellith, however, break the mold...OC-centric, but canon Silmarillion characters feature as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songfic to Faith Hill's "Wild Ones." I disclaim the lyrics - not all of them are used.

_They said change your clothes,_  
She said no I won't,  
They said comb your hair,  
She said some kids don't,  
And her parents dreams went up in smoke.

Alethril Gwathioniel was the first who caused her parents’ dreams, her father’s dream of a proper obedient heir to die. Not, he admitted to himself, that the dream was _his_ in the first place. But ellith had to be protected, he had learnt at his father and uncle’s knees; he knew the lessons of Cuivienen, not so long lost to history.

Alethril was his firstborn and heir, and her mother Tatharien’s frustration and delight. She loved her wild child despite her refusal to be unladylike, as did he, truly. They brought her up alongside his elder brother’s Celeborn; the two cousins were best of friends. They learned to tell the turning and fading of the years by the brightening and dimming of the stars, and the movements of faraway worlds, from Queen Melian – together. (Gwathion was rather impressed that his Maia aunt could keep Alethril still. No one else could.)  
  
Once, they had gone to the palace for a ball, and all of a sudden, their young daughter was just _not there._ Alethril had vanished sometime during the dancing – who knows when. The palace’s occupants were in a frenzy – the girl was one of only two princesses of the kingdom and beloved by all despite her wayward manner.

When she was brought to Tatharien, pale and cold, dripping with icicles, Gwathion held his wife as she screamed and screamed. An open-air cavern, with a pool, frozen white, would have been an invitation to an elfling who didn’t understand the meaning of ‘wait.’ The ice had been unsafe. It had cracked, with no one to hear her cry for help.

Their beloved wild child, their heir Alethril, was the first to die inside the Girdle – but not the last.

 _They said you can't leave,_  
She said yes I will,  
They said don't see him,  
She said his name is Bill,  
She's on a road and its all uphill.

 _She's a wild one,_  
With an angel's face,  
She's a woman child in a state of grace,  
When she was three years old on her daddy's knee,  
He said you can be anything you want to be,  
She's a wild one,  
Runnin' free.

Luthien was Alethril’s first cousin once removed, and like her younger cousin was rather a puzzle to her royal father. She was certainly more ladylike, in general a proper heir, but she hated being confined and constrained; she hated being ruled over, and the idea that a husband ought to be found for her. And who could be found to match Luthien?  
  
Elu would never, in all his millennia of life, have selected a hapless young Mortal, of a mere score and a half years to be the one. This child of Men knew nothing of the time before Sun and Moon, he knew nothing of the changelessness of Elves – he knew nothing of what it took to hold the hand of a Maia, or her daughter, and to rule. This boy was an outlaw on the run from the Dark Hunter’s servant. What value could _he_ be to Luthien? And yet… _and yet._ He had come alive through terrors and sorrows uncounted. Well, if he could brave the Mountains of Terror and the vale haunted by Ungoliant’s offspring, he could certainly handle one final test. Elu would not lose his beloved daughter to death without proof of this Man’s rightness.  
  
The likelihood, of course, was that Beren would die – as he would have to, anyway – and Elu could perhaps find his wild daughter someone more suitable. Daeron, perhaps, who loved her after all. Elu had raised her as his heir, but he hadn’t expected her to become quite _this_ unpredictable. After all, he had raised Brandir, too. Brandir, his foster-son, abandoned as a little boy, who had steadied from his earliest days and become a son to be proud of. Now, Brandir’s daughters, especially his youngest…

 _She loves rock and roll,_  
They said it's satan's tongue,  
She thinks they're too old,  
They think she's too young,  
And the battle lines are clearly drawn.

 _She's a wild one,_  
With an angel's face,  
She's a woman child in a state of grace,  
When she was three years old on her daddy's knee,  
He said you can be anything you want to be,  
She's a wild one,  
Runnin' free.

Miniel and Tadiel had turned into gentle young ladies, who waited on their foster-grandmother Melian dutifully and made no complaints. But even Melian wouldn’t accept Neldiel into her service, much as she adored the child. Melian was rather sure that Neldiel was Alethril over again. Perhaps a little more than figuratively, even…

Then again, it was Miniel and Tadiel who had accepted the courtship of commoners, though they were wealthy artisans whose work Elu often received. Neldiel was the one who had been betrothed to Celepharn Gwathionchil – he was closest to her age, after all.

Celepharn was Alethril’s brother, Gwathion’s heir. Born after her death and knowing naught of her for many years, when he _did_ find out it was made clear he was no mere replacement for her. But he secretly admired this wild sister of his, wishing he’d gotten to meet her. The patriarchy grated on him, and he swore he’d never force his wife to obey unless he _had_ to.

Neldiel was so like Alethril – was it any wonder Celepharn loved her? Luthien adored them both, as she had adored her little cousin, and had always approved of their marriage, of their sons – Oropher and Vehiron – and in return, they had aided her in fleeing Neldoreth when it came time. The Hirilorn stood empty because Celepharn and Neldiel, Celeborn and Galathil, had distracted the Princess’ guards. Elu wouldn’t stand in the way of love that was true and right.

 

Nor, when the time came, did he let Beren’s hand remain lost to the Carcharoth. The Quest was fulfilled, if not in the way any had thought, and the King welcomed the Camlost, Beren Erchamion, as his son.

 


	7. Terrible Cows (Double drabble)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, Ulwarth son of Ulfang betrays the Sons of Feanor. He is slain by the sons of Bor. After the battle, the Ambarussa look at the traitor’s body, and consider the cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the random quote SWG generator provided: 'Because the truth was, and he knew it well, that he had terrible cows.' -William Goldman, 'The Princess Bride'

_Tears unnumbered shall ye shed…_ The words echoed in Telufinwë’s mind. Pityafinwë sat beside him, in his wheeled chair, withered legs trembling. The study door opened, and the twins looked up.  
  
“It’s done now, Pityo, Telvo.” Morifinwë strode to the desk, carrying a bundle in his arms. “The traitor is dead.”

 

The twins stirred, and bile rose in Telufinwë’s throat as he realised what Moryo was dropping on the surface before them. Black cloth, as bloodstained as Moryo’s face and clothes, fell away, and the naked, charred body of Ulwarth was displayed for them to see.

 

“W-what will you do with him?” Pityo whispered. Moryo looked disgusted. “Display him on the battlements. Seize his goods - except the cattle. He has terrible cows.”


	8. Aewellond and the Downfallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sinking of Númenor had far-reaching consequences. They were felt even – perhaps especially – in the uttermost West.

The Tower of Aewellond was beautiful in the cool grey light that preceded the dawning. That was the only thought occupying the mind of the Noldotári, Eärwen, as she gazed eastward. A visit to her Pereldarin kin was rare, but not unheard of, and she found the place peaceful – usually.

 

The dawn was welcomed by Elven song, and even now she heard elflings raising their voices in hymns of praise to the Queen of Stars, and to Arien who guided the Sun’s orb on its appointed path. Many of the elflings were ranged on the beach below, watching as Eärendil brought his ship in to dock.

 

Abruptly, the singing stopped, and the children raced inside. At that unexpected development, the Queen raced down the spiral staircase, hitching the hem of her gown out of the way. _What in the names of the Valar…_ she thought, rather irreverently, but Eärwen reached the landing at the same time as the Mariner ascended to it. “What _happened,_ Ardamirë?” she demanded of her great-nephew, using his mother-name for emphasis.

 

Elwing was right behind her husband, and only just managed not to cringe at the look on the Queen’s face. Her own face was white with fear. “They’re coming,” she whispered.

 

“Who?” Eärwen demanded impatiently, and Elwing was forcibly reminded of her Aunt Galadriel – _she is Galadriel’s nana after all,_ Elwing thought. “Who is coming, elfling?”

 

Elwing had no time to answer. The tower rocked suddenly, and Elwing was glad they all fit on the landing as they were thrown to the floor, the breath knocked from them.

 

“Who is it?” Eärwen repeated, when she was finally able. The tower had not ceased its wild movements, but they were becoming used to it, and a fourth was making his way shakily up the steps toward them.

 

“Our…sons,” Elwing gasped, weeping. Eärendil wrapped his arms around her, as the wind howled, the tower shuddered, and Lord Brandir, once of Doriath, dragged himself up to the landing at last. “Our sons come.”   
  
“Surely not Elrond,” Brandir said, getting the attention of the other three. He gave them the shy glance typical of a Reborn unsure whether he was wanted, but then he shifted almost effortlessly into ‘loremaster mode’, as Eärwen called it. 

 

“Elrond would not—” he began, automatically reaching for the Queen’s hand as another tremor shook them. She gave it to him. “Elrond would not cause such a reaction simply by arriving. Elros…” He grieved silently for the mortal son of Elwing. “This is Elros’ long-son.”   
  
“Yes.” The word was difficult to speak. “He comes, at the head of a fleet of ships,” Eärendil managed to say. Eärwen and Brandir laughed in shock and disbelief.   
  
“What does he here, this son of Elros?” Eärwen demanded.   
  
“I heard their talk,” Eärendil murmured. “He wishes to—ah---to _reclaim immortality_ from we Eldar who kept it from him, and from the Valar. He wishes to conquer Aman.”

 

No one knew how to respond to that. No one _could_ respond to that. The four frightened Elves – Pereldarin, Lindarin, and Sindarin – fell silent, holding each other there on the landing, sending silent prayers for safety. Somehow, they knew they could not, _should not,_ leave that landing, halfway up – or down – the Tower.

 

At last, it was over. All was calm. Outside, the seabirds screamed, the whales leapt in the waves.  
  
There were little changes –  light had a different quality to it, somehow, the air a different scent, and it puzzled them. But the Tower was still, and slowly, carefully, they ascended, trying to ascertain the extent of the damage.  
  
To their surprise and relief, there was none. But then, Maiar had been involved in the Tower’s construction.  
  
They looked eastward, toward Tol Eressëa, and beyond that, to –

 

_What?_

Dumbfounded, the four took their time processing what they were seeing – or _not_ seeing.

 

“Where,” Eärendil asked at last, “is Númenor?”

 


End file.
